3u J T HE 1HEÄ I\, . (",,f-C'hA ,,1 '. .,7., .W' ":, 1-7 .. J E \.;, ,. f , .ø f!! .t: t - ;.N I" 'ifJ, # ;J.'.' \:' N one of these things, though, is quite enough, and the Stevensons' piece, I guess, must be added to the long list of casualties so far exacted by the war. r\1argaret Webster, incidentally, is the director and has arranged for a succes- sion of sound effects guaranteed to keep you alert if not happy. j .. -.....;:.. -41 l ï "" - - . '- THE, BORE, THAT W ALK5 LIKE- A MAN T HE next subject for dissection, an oddity called "A Barber Had Two Sons," also deals with the war and in- volves an impressive amount of blood- shed but practically no intelligence. The scene this tin1e is laid in a Norwegian village where the natives are preparing to assist an Allied invasion. The prin- cipal characters are a female barber; her two sons, one a man of action from the sea, the other a sensitive artist who col- lects Turner lithographs; and a young woman whose love life might amuse Catherine of Russia. These people, as- sisted by a collection of whimsical lo- cal types and villainous Nazi officers, spend the evening slitting one another's throats, dropping bodies down a very convenient trapdoor, planning to blow up everything in sight, and hehaving generally like the figures in a wartime cornie strip. In spite of all this super- heated activity, however, the play is moderately silly and not recommended to your civilized attention. Like the too an1iable Muscovites in "Counterattack," by the way, the Norwegians seem to have qualities not altogether reassuring in an ally: when anybody in Norway is about to execute a little sabotage the first thing he does is to tell everybody else . . about it, including compara- tive strangers. The cast at the Play house involves Blanche Yurka, who is never going to get a chance to cut my hair; Tutta Rolf, an authentic Norse, apparent- ly; Richard Powers; and \Valter Brooke. Phil Raguel's set sometimes has the air of being composed entirely of doors, including the one In the floor. Errol Flynn case. While this humane spirit certainly provides the Stevensons with a play, I'm sorry to say that it doesn't seem to be a very good one, be- ing neither truth, nor art, nor good red melodrama. In addition to the improbability of its central theme, "Counterattack" suffers from a more than usually heavy dose of propaganda (practically all Nazis, you gather, are prepared to change sides at the drop of a slogan), a reiteration of melodramatic devices ( almost every time you look at the stage somebody is creeping up on an unconscious Rus- sian), and a distinctly maniacal love affair (I have the greatest admiration for Barbara O'Neil, but what rational purpose she is supposed to be serving at the Windsor I haven't the slightest L,; idea) . I don't mean by any of this that "Counterattack" is without its virtues. There are quite a few notable perform- ances, particularly those given by Mor- ris Carnovsky, Martin Wolfson, and Sam Wanamaker; some eloquent and exciting passages; and a setting by John Root that actually does seem about to tumble down around everybody's ears, precisely as demanded by the script. T HIS department had a busy time last week, but I'm afraid it wasn't an especially rewarding one. The main problem unquestionably was a performance called "Counterattack" which showed up Wednesday at the Windsor. One of the troubles with this play, an adaptation from the Russian by Janet and Philip Stevenson, is that it portrays the war on the Eastern Front in a curiously genial light. Two R us- sians and seven or eight disarmed Ger- mans, including a beautiful nurse, are trapped in the cellar of a crumbling house. For reasons with which I have no intention of burdening you, it is nec- essary for the Red soldiers to discover which of their captives is a commissioned officer and also-you will just have to take my word for this-not to kill any- body in the process. To' a realist, it should be apparent that any competent member of the Hempstead, L.I., police department could hammer or otherwise , cajole this information out of the pris- oners in half an hour at the outside. Our allies) however, appear to be scrupulous men, permitting themselves nothing rTIore drastic than the question-and-an- swer method, so their inquiry, goes on forever, rather like the testimony in the / \ '" LAND YOUNG, a gifted fox terrier of a man, re- turned to us last week in "Ask My Friend Sandy," a comedy that seemed rather promising for one act and then collapsed into the sad- dest possible foolishness. The author was convinced that it would be funny if a socially minded publisher could be persuaded to give all his \, ' - -kc X-z:::.... _ _ __ _ - ;; )_ t) t } ifS =-==-----= m ---=- - -- - \\ -? I '..: (i.' \ \ -,,-- \ ,\,.'- \- -,-- - " ((Ouch!))